


Baby, It's Cold Outside

by haroldslouis



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Christmas Vacation, Hotel Owner Gary, Hotels, Just-Married Gerlonso, M/M, Retired Football Player Jamie, they meet and fall in love in the snow okay thats basically it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-29
Updated: 2016-12-29
Packaged: 2018-09-13 03:47:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9105352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/haroldslouis/pseuds/haroldslouis
Summary: While Gary files away some remaining paperwork, he wonders which nutcase joins their best friends on their honeymoon. A Red, apparently.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This was called "the ski resort mistake" on my Google Docs and I think that says enough. This is dedicated to all the people in the Carraville fandom, I appreciate all five of you. No joke, I think it's great how we've created a ship that took over the reigns from us and started sailing itself across the seven seas. When will other people's OTP ever.
> 
> Also: If you're here for the Gerlonso, I am afraid their role is quite similar to kids playing the tree in high school plays. Sorry 'bout that. 
> 
> Enjoy!

The first time Gary sees Jamie Carragher… is actually not the first time he sees him. No, he vividly remembers the first time he’d laid eyes on him. It was in 2011, back when he was still living in Manchester, working as the hotel manager at the Lowry Hotel. Phil had physically dragged him out of the lobby after a fifteen-hour work day, and demanded they spent some time together. Huddled underneath an umbrella, they went to the Manchester United versus Liverpool game. And that was where Gary had first caught sight of Jamie Carragher. When Carragher delivered a brutal tackle on Nani, Gary had spent a significant amount of time screaming insults towards him and his mother from the stands.

So, to see the retired football player walking through his lobby, dragging an expensive suitcase behind him, is, quite frankly, a little jarring to Gary.

Carragher is dressed sharply, snowflakes dusting on the lapels of his trench coat. His cheeks are red from the cold outside, and Gary watches as he takes off his gloves and slaps them together, snowflakes and waterdrops falling to the deep red carpet.

The entrance doors spin around again, and Gary’s eyes widen when Steven Gerrard steps inside the lobby, blowing air between his bare fingers. He is followed by Xabi Alonso, who looks altogether unaffected by it all.

Gary tears his gaze away and turns towards the computer behind the reception. Scrolling through the reservations, he bites down on his lip. Yes, there they are. One reservation under the name of Gerrard, for a suite with a view of the mountains, and one reservation under the name of Carragher.

He takes out his phone from the inner pocket of his jacket, and dials Phil. “Why didn’t you tell me you took on a reservation for three former Reds?” he says, as soon as Phil picks up the phone.

“Huh?” Phil asks, sounding sleepy and confused. “Oh, right. Alonso, Gerrard, and Carragher, right?”

“No, I mean the other three,” Gary deadpans. “Yes, them! They’re in the lobby right now.”

“Listen, Gaz,” Phil says, groaning a little as if he’s getting up from somewhere. “It was a pretty last minute reservation, you know, because of the secret wedding and stuff.”

“Secret wedding?” Gary repeats. “What secret wedding?”

“You haven’t heard? Jesus, Gaz, we show the news on the flat screen above the reception. It’s been all over.”

“I don’t watch TV, Phil, I _work_. Especially now that you’re taking a break, I can’t just loiter around watching the news. Now, what wedding?”

“Between Alonso and Gerrard, they apparently got married two weeks ago at the city hall, but now the news has broke and they’re fleeing England for a bit until the heat dies down. I’ve assured them nothing will destress someone more than a resort in the Swiss Alps.”

Gary looks at Alonso and Gerrard, who are still standing in the lobby, looking at the weather forecast on the printed sheets by the door.

“Married?” Gary asks. “But how? And, why? Do they even fancy each other?”

“Pretty sure they do, Gaz.”

“Don’t roll your eyes at me, I don’t know these kind of things.”

“Well, catch up on your gossip magazines when you finish at three in the morning. I’ll swing by the hotel tomorrow.”

Gary resists the urge to huff and puts the phone back in his pocket. He turns his back towards the lobby, scanning the reservations again. Apparently, they’ll be staying a week, and they’ve reserved skis and lift passes as well. He doesn’t understand why Carragher is there, though, if this is supposed to be a honeymoon of sorts.

Someone clears their throat behind him, and Gary quickly turns around, plastering on his client friendly smile. The back of his neck itches when Jamie Carragher stands there, tapping his fingers rhythmically on the wooden reception desk. Gary hopes his smile doesn’t fade too much, but he can’t help it, the guy is as Red as they come.

“Checking in, Sir?” he asks.

Carragher nods, tugging his tightly bound scarf loose, revealing his bare neck. Gary’s smile strains.

“Yeah, er, for us three,” he waves vaguely to Alonso and Gerrard. He slides the reservation papers over the desk, and Gary takes them.

He turns back towards the computer, acting as if he hadn’t pulled up their reservation yet and didn’t know who they were. Opening a drawer, he pulls out three white passes and slides them through the slit next to the computer monitor.

“There you go,” he says, handing the passes to Carragher, as well as the reservation papers. “These two passes will correspond to room 461, and this one will correspond to your room, room 445. They can also be used for the gym, the pool, and will grant you access to the slopes.”

“And if I lose it?” Carragher asks, sounding as if he’s already certain he will.

“Then I’ll make you another one,” Gary replies, “But it will be taken out of the guarantee deposit.”

“Ah, makes sense,” Carragher nods. “I guess I’ll go give these to the newlyweds, I’m sure they’re ready to start their honeymoon after the whole shitstorm back in England.”

Instead of wishing them a nice stay, Gary blurts out, “So it really is a honeymoon?”

Carragher looks at him, brow slightly furled in confusion. “Yes, of course, haven’t you seen the news?”

“Yes, I have,” Gary lies, “I was just wondering if it was an actual honeymoon, since you are here as well.”

Carragher looks insulted. “Why wouldn’t I go on their honeymoon? They’re my best mates.” He gives Gary one last insulted glance before walking back towards Alonso and Gerrard.

While Gary files away some remaining paperwork, he wonders which nutcase joins their best friends on their honeymoon. A Red, apparently.

 

❄❄❄❄❄

 

During the following days, Gary catches glimpses of Carragher around the hotel. Admittedly, the man doesn’t make his blood boil as he used to, with Gary getting the urge to flip him off every time he sees him, but that can also be attributed to him not wanting to lose his job.

Carragher mostly seems to be out skiing on the slopes with Alonso and Gerrard, and Gary always has trouble tearing his eyes away from the flush high on Carragher’s cheekbones whenever they come back into the lobby around dinner time.

The man is good looking, with piercing blue eyes and an infectious smile. Gary would’ve enjoyed staring at him longer, but he always reminds himself of the club Carragher played for and the horrible accent that comes out whenever he opens his mouth. Not that his own Mancunian accent is music to anyone’s ears, but still. It’s about principle.

It’s on the third day that Gary receives confirmation that, yes, there is a god, and this god exists to make his life a living hell. This god could very well take a human form in his brother.

He’s writing down and discussing the results of the heat distribution tests that were performed on the hotel’s heating system with Phil, when a shirtless Jamie Carragher walks up to the reception desk. Gary takes in the wet swimming trunks and the towel slung casually around Carragher’s neck, before he drags his gaze away from the man’s collarbones.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Carragher drawls in that accent of his, and Gary breaks the tip of his pencil on the clipboard he’s holding.

“Not at all,” Phil says, giving him a smile as if it’s totally normal that he’s standing there, dripping wet and half naked in their lobby. “How can I help you today, Mister Carragher?”

“Yeah, so,” Carragher begins, looking at Phil and then at Gary. “It seems I’ve lost my pass to my room.”

Gary wants to pipe up with an, “ _Already_?” but Phil beats him to it. “That’s not a problem, we’ll make you a new one. Room 445, was it?”

Gary gives Phil a look, because it’s logical that Gary remembers in which room Carragher is staying, but it isn’t for Phil. Oh well, his brother has always been a bit of a kiss ass, if anything else.

“Yeah, that’s the one.”

While Phil turns around to the computer, Gary just gives Carragher an awkward smile, not knowing what to say. There’s still drops of water sliding down the man’s abdomen, for God’s sake. Before Gary pointedly fixes his eyes on the weather report on the TV, his mind notes that it’s a nice abdomen.

“Here you go,” Phil says, turning back around and handing the pass over to Carragher. He turns towards Gary. “I’m sure Mr. Neville can bring you up to your room, just to make sure the new pass is correctly calibrated.”

“Oh,” Carragher smiles, turning to Gary. “Thank you.”

Gary slightly moves his foot to press his heel down on Phil’s toes. “It’s my pleasure.”

He moves away from the reception desk and heads towards the elevator. Carragher’s slippers squeak as he follows him. Gary punches the button for the largest elevator, not wanting to be in an enclosed space with the man too long. Half-naked man, his brain helpfully provides.

The hum of the elevator is loud in the quiet space as they go up, and for a lack of anything better to ask, Gary asks: “How was the pool?”

“Oh, ‘t was great,” Carragher replies, “I love bubbles.”

Gary wonders if this guy is even real.

 

❄❄❄❄❄

 

“Are we nearly done for the night, Mr. Neville?” Arnold asks him, mopping the granite floor of the hotel’s restaurant.

It’s nearly one in the morning, the windows revealing the pitch black world outside with the snow fluttering down steadily. Phil is working on the table settings, the legs of the red velvet chairs scraping across the floor as he puts them in their right places. The light from the chandeliers overhead is dim, and one of Bach’s Goldberg Variations echoes through the room.

Gary looks up from where he’s sitting at the bar, a half-empty pint in front of him. He loses the day’s profit calculation in his head.

“Oh, erm,” he looks around the restaurant, “Yes, if you just wipe a damp cloth over the bar again, then you’re free to go. Thanks for today, Arnold.” He divides the tips and slides Arnold’s share across the wood of the bar.

“Sure thing, Mr. Neville,” Arnold nods.

Gary returns back to his calculations, using the calculator on his iPhone. He takes a sip from his beer, the condensation on the class cold against his fingertips. There’s a soft drumming against his temples, a sign that he should stop thinking and just go to bed already. As usual, Gary tries to will it away with sheer stubbornness.

After Phil has arranged the table settings, Gary gives him the quickly scribbled down overview of the day, and Phil takes it home with him.

Gary knows he should go home as well, but the snow’s getting worse and he never did like driving his car in this weather. Whenever he mentions it, Phil always sputters ‘Then why did you come here then, obviously not for the palmtrees and the sunshine’ and Gary lets it go. They both know why Gary left the hustle and bustle of cloudy, busy Manchester, and traded it for a remote resort on top of a mountain, in the middle of nowhere.

He fills in the last lines in the books, signs it, and slaps it closed. Resting his hand on the cool leather of the book, he traces the hotel’s initials with his index-finger.

Someone clears their throat, and Gary looks up.

Jamie Carragher is standing by the doors, still in the lobby. “Sorry, is it closed?” he asks, looking around at the deserted restaurant.

Gary slides off the bar stool that shouldn’t actually be called a bar stool, since it cost more than what he makes in a month.

“Technically yes,” he says, going behind the bar and flicking on the light. “But what can I pour for you?”

“Oh,” Carragher looks pleased, his blue eyes slightly less piercing in the low light. “Whatever you were drinking.” He slides into the seat Gary vacated, and drums a rhythm with his fingers on the bar.

Gary stares at Carragher’s long fingers. His fingernails are well trimmed, and there is a small wound on the cuticle of his right thumb. He doesn’t wear a wedding ring.

He makes himself snap out of whatever he got himself into again and holds a glass underneath the tap, pouring Carragher a beer. He sets it down in front of him.

“Thanks, mate,” Carragher says, and Gary doesn’t even bite the inside of his lip as he tries to figure out how to turn on the flatscreen above the bar.

There’s a summary on of today’s Liverpool game, and Gary can’t help the small displeased sound that comes out between his teeth. Carragher perks up, though, and since Gary prides himself on being a fully functioning and professional adult, he doesn’t change the channel just to spite the man. But he does imagine how satisfying it would feel.

He continues cleaning up the bar, stacking coffee cups and turning the liquor bottles’ labels to the front. Carragher’s eyes are fixed on the screen, his gaze following the play.

“Oh, no, you should’ve gone to the inside,” he mutters, when Lallana’s shot on goal gets deflected by a defender.

Gary hums. “He should’ve faked it, used his size to get past him. Gives him plenty enough space to shoot.”

“What do you mean, space, he was surrounded,” Carragher protests, gesturing wildly at the screen, “If he’d have gone inside and let Coutinho go over the touchline, Coutinho could’ve flung the ball into the box.”

“Why should he, he could’ve made space to take the shot himself. Tottenham’s got the length on Liverpool, even if Coutinho would’ve gotten it into the box, they would’ve headed it away,” Gary states, reaching over the bar to grab his abandoned glass of beer.

Carragher takes his eyes off of the screen and gives Gary a look, which, frankly, takes him a bit aback. The man looks serious as if it’s a matter of life and death.

“ _No_ ,” Carragher stresses, his full lips curling around the word. “Emre and Sturridge could’ve gotten there before Alderweireld or Vertonghen.”

“That’s a big if, though-” Gary interjects, but Carragher interrupts him with an offended “No, it’s not!”

For a few seconds, they just glare at each other across the bar, both of their knuckles going white from where their fingers are clenched around their glasses.

Gary cracks first, his inner voice, which sounds eerily like his brother, convincing him that his job’s more important than winning an argument over a Scouser. Just slightly, though.

“Alright, whatever,” Gary says, emptying his glass down the drain and rinsing it under the faucet.

Carragher looks disappointed. “Whattaya mean, _alright, whatever_?”

“I don’t sound like that,” Gary sputters.

“Do, too,” Carragher replies, because apparently he’s five years old.

Gary sighs, turning the faucet off. “I’m just saying, if you wanna believe Emre Can would win a corner over Alderweireld and get it past Lloris, then fine.”

“Well, it’s not like it’s so bloody likely that Lallana would’ve found the space to take a shot,” Carragher mutters, looking as close to petulant as a grown up can.

“At least he was already in the six yard box,  _j_ _esus_ ,” Gary snaps, getting worked up.

“With four defenders surrounding him,” Carragher reminds him, taking a sip from his beer and sending Gary a smug look over the rim of his glass.

Gary just lets out a sound that half a grunt and half a sigh. He turns his eyes back on the TV, where the news is already back to covering the staggering amount of chickens in England.

Carragher clears his throat, putting his empty glass back on the bar. Whatever the moment was between them, it’s clearly over now, and Gary doesn’t look at him as he takes the glass from the bar.

Carragher slides off the bar stool and pats the bar absentmindedly, moving away.

“Sorry,” Gary gets out between his teeth, drying the clean beer glass with a dishcloth.

Carragher turns around at the door, eyebrows raised. “Hm?”

“I said I’m sorry, Mr. Carragher,” Gary repeats. “I shouldn’t have gone off on you like that. Especially not because you’re a guest in this hotel.”

His heart thuds when Carragher gives him a charming grin, his eyes bright. “‘s okay, I like a man with a passion for the game. And honestly, it’s Jamie.”

Gary nods, turning around to place the beer glass back on the shelf. When he turns around, Jamie’s gone. The only proof he’d even been there is the lingering scent of his cologne in the air.

 

❄❄❄❄❄

 

The wind is biting at his cheeks, the wet corners of his eyes burning with the small flecks of ice forming there. Gary clenches his hands tight in his gloves and ducks deeper into his jacket.

The trees flash past him as he skis down the slope. The whirring of the ski lift overhead drowns in the swooshing of the wind past his beanie-covered ears. His skis slide across the snow smoothly, and he weaves his track down the mountain.

“Gary, look!” Phil shouts at him as he skis past on one leg, the other dangling in the air. His arms flail around as he’s trying to stay upright.

Gary grins behind his scarf, propping his skis sideways to slow down. He comes to a stop at the foot of the mountain. The wind blows around him and he steadies his stance.

It’s been awhile since he last strapped the skis onto his boots. When he started working Switzerland, he took up every kind of activity to just keep himself busy, to just make himself forget about England. But now, with the memory of England faded like a stubborn bruise, he mostly just keeps himself busy with the hotel. He’s usually the first one in and the last one to go, if he even goes at all.

Phil’s got it sorted out better, Gary thinks. He’s got something of a girlfriend down in the town, and always leaves after dinnertime at the hotel. Last weekend, they went on a trip to Geneva. Gary can’t remember the last time he took a few hours off, let alone an entire weekend. Frankly, he thinks he’d go mad in his own head if left to his thoughts for forty-eight hours.

He’s very clearly out of it, the skiing, because he’s thinking too hard and doesn’t pay attention to his surroundings, until someone skis into him from the side and tackles him to the ground.

He finds himself on his back, snow in his hair and cold seeping through his clothes. Honestly, it wouldn’t be that bad to just stay like this for a while, he thinks.

But then the red beard of Xabi Alonso appears right in his vision. “Oh, so sorry!” Alonso says, his Spanish lisp catching on the words. “I told Stevie not to let go.”

Gary lets himself be pulled upright by Alonso, and he brushes the snow off of his clothes. “It’s fine, no harm done,” he says, giving the man a smile.

“I’ll make Stevie pay a big tip at the end of our stay,” Alonso says solemnly, suddenly turning to someone outside of Gary’s line of sight. “Won’t you?”

“Won’t I, what?” Gerrard asks, skidding to a halt near them.

“Just say yes,” Alonso says, brushing off some snow from Gary’s shoulders.

“Yes,” Gerrard answers, with a smile that only people who are sickeningly in love wear. Gary smiles awkwardly.

Alonso gives Gary another once-over, giving him a tentative look. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

Gary waves his concerns away. “Yes, everything’s fine.”

“Good,” Alonso nods, “You going up again?”

Turning his gaze to the top of the mountain, Gary lets his eyes follow the small figures weaving their way down. It only three in the afternoon, he’s got some time left before the dinner rush starts up.

“Lead the way,” he says, gesturing towards the ski lifts.

They traipse through the snow, hearing it crunch underneath their feet. Gary lets Alonso and Gerrard go through the portals first, before scanning his own pass and going through as well.

“Ah, there you are!”

Until this day, he refuses to admit he let out a high-pitched yelp.

“Don’t worry, ‘s just me,” Jamie grins, his eyes matching the clear sky above. The wind has bitten his cheeks and lips a shade of deep apple red and Gary feels the irrational need to paint the entire lobby in that colour.

Jamie has sided next to him, and before Gary realises it, he’s pulled the metal bar down over them, and they’re in the chairlift moving up the mountain.

Gary wants to look affronted, given the fact that Jamie’s just kidnapped him onto the chairlift. But then he looks over, and Jamie’s labored breathing is making puffs of vapour escape through his lips, and Gary forgets all his principles against kidnapping.

“Didn’t know you skied,” Jamie says, one of his arms stretching along the back of their small seats. “Thought you were one of those managers who thinks their hotel will go up in flames if they leave it for two minutes.”

“I am, I just want to cash in the insurance money,” Gary replies seamlessly. It’s hard to breathe, sitting so close to Jamie, but when Jamie starts laughing that obnoxious loud laugh of his, Gary’s chest expands a bit.

“Of course, should’ve known it’s all about the money for you Mancs,” Jamie snorts.

“How’d’ya know that I'm a Manc?” Gary asks, looking sideways.

“Honestly, the fact that your face went all constipated when you had to turn the Liverpool game on in the bar the other night. Also, I asked Phil.”

Gary pulls a face at the mention of his brother. “Obviously, should’ve guessed that. But you haven’t changed your hotel yet, despite the fact that the managers are a couple of dirty Mancs?”

The chairlift comes to a skidding halt, and Jamie lifts the metal bar back over their heads. He jumps off of the chairlift with a grace that Gary feels strangely offended by.

Jamie shrugs. “It’s not too bad, you know, one of the managers looks like an elf when he’s wearing a beanie, so.”

Gary stumbles and clatters after Jamie, tugging his beanie further down over his ears. “I don’t look like a bloody elf!”

 

❄❄❄❄❄

 

It's Saturday evening, the restaurant is full, and Gary is arguing with his head chef.

“Ryan, I've been telling you this for three weeks now, you've got to stack up on shallots or you're gonna run out,” he says, pulling the kitchen’s metal drawers out and searching through the contents. “ _Coq au Riesling_ is what people are coming here for, and you can't afford to make your dishes mediocre just ‘cause you've forgot to order a delivery.”

Ryan nods, saying, _yes boss, of course boss._

Gary sighs, running his fingers through his hair. “Just stay on top of it from now on, okay? Next time you forget, send Phil down the mountain to go get you some.”

“Will do, boss.”

He makes another round through the kitchen, stealing an oyster from Rio as he makes his way back to the restaurant.   

Dana is manning the bar, pouring the drink orders, and Gary walks over. “Everything alright?” he asks, leaning both his hands on the edge of the bar and checking the tables on the computer.

Dana hums, pouring a single malt whiskey and putting it on a tray, handing it off to Aaron. “Quiet night so far, the Rosenburg family is here for the grandparents’ 50th anniversary. Did you sort it out with Ryan about the shallots?”

“He’s still got some, but he sent someone down the mountain to stack up,” Gary replies, shifting through some of the orders that’ve been sent in. “There’s only a few orders for _Coq Au Riesling_ so we should be good for a while.”

The receipt machine buzzes and Gary looks at the new drink order. “A bottle of Duckhorn Vineyards Merlot, two glasses.”

Dana whistles. “Which table? That bottle’s about a hundred Euros.”

“Table thirty-four,” Gary replies, letting his eyes scan through the restaurant.

Jamie Carragher is waving at him, beckoning him over.

“Of course,” Gary mutters under his breath, taking the bottle from Dana’s hands, placing it on the tray along with the two glasses. “Thanks, I’ll bring it over.”

He fluidly moves between the tables, smiling and greeting some of the guests and locals he knows from the village. The red velvet curtains are draped along the windows, revealing the dark world outside. Snow is falling down steadily, thick snowflakes sticking to the glass.

When he reaches Jamie’s table, he notices the man is sitting alone. He places one glass in front of him. “Who’s the other glass for then?” he asks.

“For you,” Jamie says matter-of-factly, turning a page of the menu over.

Gary pops the cork of the bottle. “Hotel manager isn’t a nine to five job, just so you know. Technically I’m still working.”

“Everything seems under control, though.” Jamie gives him a smile.

“You’re missing your usual partners in crime,” Gary says instead, pouring Jamie a glass of Merlot. He sets the bottle and the spare glass on the table, and taps one of the waiters on the arm, handing him the tray.

He notices the pleased look on Jamie’s face as he sits down. “I’m afraid Gazza and Xabi are taking a romantic carriage ride through the town.”

Gary pulls a face, which prompts Jamie to laugh. “So joining them on that is where you draw the line,” he says, picking up the bottle and pouring himself a small glass.

Jamie shrugs. “I’d fancy myself a carriage ride any day of the week, but I’m not exactly excited about sitting still in minus sixteen degrees.”

“Fair enough,” Gary admits, taking a sip from his glass and humming as the rich taste flows over his tongue. “As awful as your taste in football might be, at least you know your wine.” He smacks his lips and catches Jamie looking at them as he licks them, tasting the wine on his tongue.

“You gotta do something once you’re retired, right?” Jamie says with a glint in his eyes.

“Becoming a raging alcoholic next to the day job of being a pundit?” Gary asks.

Jamie rolls his eyes. “Well, I wouldn’t go that far. I’d hardly call myself a pundit.”

Gary laughs, twirling the thin stem of the wine glass between his fingers. He lets his eyes scan through the restaurant, taking in the sight of people laughing and chatting, the fire in the hearth crackling pleasantly.

“I’ve seen your show a few times,” he admits. “Phil records them and there’s been busy nights after which I couldn’t sleep, so.”

“So,” Jamie repeats, a smile playing around his lips. “C’mon, let me have it. Seeing as I’m a former Liverpool player, you must think my punditry blows as well?”

“Obviously.” Gary grins when Jamie’s foot nudges his under the table. “To be fair, I actually think you’re right most of the time.”

Jamie snorts. “You’re just saying that ‘cause I just bought you a fancy bottle of wine.”

Gary ignores the implication of that sentence to barrel on, saying: “No, honestly, I do. Like, three months ago when Liverpool played United. Your judgment of United’s play wasn’t exactly music to my ears, you know, being a United fan. But it was true, and I think you’re always being fair in what you say.”

Jamie’s piercing eyes are studying him intently and Gary feels a blush creeping up from under the collar of his sweater. When Jamie opens his mouth to reply, suddenly Aaron is standing next to them, taking his handheld PDA out of the back pocket of his pants.

“Have you been able to make a choice, Mr Carragher?” he asks.

Gary watches Jamie quickly recover, glancing down at the menu he’d been holding. “Erm, yes,” Jamie says, pointing at a line in the menu. “I’ll have the duck breast with the plum sauce. What about you?”

Gary barely resists from choking on his sip of wine. He spares another look around the restaurant, which is bustling but not so busy that he’s needed. He looks up at Aaron. “I haven’t had dinner yet, so just tell Ryan for me to just make me whatever,” he says.

Aaron nods, giving Gary an _Sure thing, boss_ , before collecting Jamie’s menu and walking off.

“What?” Gary asks, noticing the look on Jamie’s face.

The other man chuckles softly. “Maybe I should’ve been more clear about tricking you into a date.”

Gary’s sure his eyebrows have disappeared into his hairline. “A date? That’s what this is?”

“What else would it be?” Jamie asks. “You reckon I ask the manager of every hotel I stay at to share a bottle of wine with me?”

Well, when he puts it like that… Gary shrugs, mumbling, “I don’t know, maybe that’s a thing you do.”

Jamie sends him a fond smile. “It isn’t. I just wanted to sit down with you and have a talk before I’m leaving tomorrow.”

“So you take me out in my own restaurant?”

Groaning softly, Jamie closes his eyes briefly. “Don’t point that out, it makes me look even stupider.”

Gary can’t help but feel warm inside at the way Jamie looks at him. “I do own a pretty good restaurant, though, perfectly adequate for a date,” he concedes.

“Yeah?” Jamie grins, fingers turning his fork over and over, a nervous tic.

“Plus, it’s only nine-thirty, so you’ve got enough time left to trick me into going somewhere else.”

“Somewhere else?” Jamie wiggles his eyebrows, looking positively deranged.

Gary snorts. “Take your mind out of the gutter. I meant, like, going outside or something.”

Jamie pointedly looks at the window, watching the snow coming down heavily. “Yeah, only for you to leave me out there to freeze to death, I’m sure.”

“There’s one way to find out,” Gary smiles over the rim of his glass, heat tickling at the back of his neck when Jamie lifts his eyes to meet his.

Their food comes twenty minutes later, and in between taking bites, they talk about the football matches of the past weekend, about Xabi and Steven, and how Gary’s managed to transform an old, lacklustre hotel into one of the most prestigious hotspots in Switzerland.

Jamie’s telling about his farewell match while Gary scoops up the last bit of his dessert. He likes talking with Jamie, and listening to him describe what it’s like playing at the highest level. Jamie had to struggle to keep his panna cotta inside his mouth when Gary recalled the match where he had shouted crude insults about Jamie and his mother.

“That’s some hateful passion you’ve got,” Jamie grins, raking his fingers through his hair.

Gary shrugs, smiling at his empty plate. “I’d like to say it’s gotten less over the years but I don’t know, it’s been awhile since I went to a match.”

Jamie has a thoughtful furl above his eyebrows, and then turns a little in his chair to signal Aaron to come over.

The heels of Aaron’s dress shoes click on the shining granite floor, and he smiles winningly at Jamie. “Can I get you something else, Mr Carragher?”

“No, thank you. Could you charge the dinner bill with a tip of twenty euros to my room, please?”

“Certainly,” Aaron nods, “Thank you.”

Gary looks around, noting how the restaurant is mostly empty. “After all the guests have left you can start cleaning up and call it a night, Aaron,” he tells his waiter, nodding towards the bar. “Just make sure we’re ready to go for tomorrow and then you and Dana can leave.”

Aaron gives him a grateful smile and takes their empty plates. “Have a nice night.”

“You too,” Jamie says, before turning towards Gary again. “So what do you say, up for a walk?”

Gary slides his chair backwards, giving Jamie a look. “Not scared anymore that I’d leave you out there to freeze?”

“Nah,” Jamie grins, making a throwaway motion with his hands. “You wouldn’t.”

“Famous last words,” Gary mutters, laughing when he sees Jamie’s face. “I’m kidding, let’s go before the snow gets worse.”

While Jamie retrieves his coat and scarf from his hotel room, Gary moves behind the reception desk. He takes his coat out of the closet, winding a scarf around his neck. In one of the boxes, high up on the shelf, are the pair of gloves Phil got him for Christmas last year. They’re red with the Manchester United logo splayed across the fabric. Gary’s never worn them, since they don’t really go with the professional persona he tries to pull off most of the time. Now, though, it seems like a good time to wear them.

Besides, it’s totally worth the disapproving frown that curves Jamie’s brow once he sees them. Gary doesn’t say anything, just smirks at him and leads them outside.  

The air is cold, biting at his cheeks. Fortunately, the wind that had blown furiously during the day has laid down, their clothes enough to engulf them in warmth.

As they walk off of the estate on which the hotel stands, and they face the view down the mountain, Jamie lets out an audible breath.

“Beautiful, right?” Gary says, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his coat. He looks at the flickering yellow lights in the village below, and lets his gaze move upwards, taking in the snowy tops of the pine trees and the mountains, and the millions of flickering stars above them.

“You never see this many stars back in England,” Jamie says, looking up every once in awhile as they walk along a thickly snowed path.

The top of the mountain here is relatively flat, which makes it easier for them to trudge through the snow without any danger of slipping. When Gary mentions it to Jamie, the other man grins: “I would’ve said I’d catch you but that was before you pulled on those hideous gloves.”

“If you’re that sensitive I can turn them like this so you can imagine they’re Liverpool red,” Gary jokes, holding his palms up and showing the even red to Jamie.

Jamie hums, bringing his own hand up to grab hold of one of Gary’s. His fingers curl around Gary’s hand. Jamie looks at their hands when he asks: “Is this alright?”

Feeling his throat click as he swallows, Gary nods. His eyes follow the puffs of vapour leaving Jamie’s lips with every exhale. “Yeah,” he says, squeezing Jamie’s hand.

They continue walking together, and Gary’s mind races a mile a minute. He feels as if he’s fifteen again, asking Charlotte from school to the dance his parents would be chaperoning at. It’s ridiculous. He lets out an indignant breath through his nose. His heart shouldn’t be going mad like this, he thinks. But it’s been awhile since he’s been with someone who makes him feel this comfortable and at ease.

“You,” Jamie says, his voice low and amused, “are a very loud thinker.”

Gary lets out an embarrassed laugh. “I know, sorry.”

Jamie hums. “Want to talk about it?”

“It’s nothing,” Gary shrugs. “It’s just… You’re a good person, Jamie.”

“But?”

“But, I’ve spent the last four years, three hundred and sixty-five days each year, on this mountain. And right now is probably the first time I’m actually considering getting off of it.”

“Is that a bad thing?” Jamie asks, shivering a little and sidling closer to Gary.

Gary feels Jamie’s shoulder against him, hears his breathing and the crunching of snow underneath his shoes. “No, I don’t think so,” he says, steeling himself. “But it’s a little jarring to be honest. Don’t you get a bigger head than you already have now, but it’s mostly because of you.”

Turning his head, Jamie meets Gary’s eyes and gives him a broad smile. “Are you saying you want to run away with me, Gaz? Do I need to rescue you from your tower and your evil brother? Should I steal a horse from the carriage rides in the village and whisk you away to far lands?”

Gary rolls his eyes and shoves Jamie a little, a smile curling the corners of his lips. “Idiot. Here I am trying to be serious and tell you my feelings, forgetting that you are actually five.”

“Don’t insult me, I am at least eight,” Jamie says. Then he turns and makes them stop, hands moving to hold Gary’s waist. “But please, continue with those feelings you’re having.”

“No, I don’t want to.”

Jamie laughs, the only sound filling up the empty spaces outside. “Now who’s being five?”

Gary feels a smile tugging at his lips again, it becoming a recurring theme whenever he’s around Jamie. “I’m just saying,” he starts again. “That it might be worth it, to take up those vacation days I’ve hoarded over the past few years.”

“Will you come to Liverpool for me?” Jamie is so close Gary can feel his breath on his cheekbone.

Gary lets Jamie pull him in closer, Jamie’s arms tightening around his waist. When Jamie presses a kiss against his forehead, Gary blurts. “Alright.”

He feels Jamie’s lips curving into a grin. “That was easy.”

One of Jamie’s hands travels up Gary’s side, cupping his jaw and tilting it up so that their eyes meet.

“Yeah, well,” Gary says, curling his fingers in the fabric of Jamie’s coat. “Maybe you make me easy.”

A thrill goes down his spine when Jamie’s eyes significantly darken at those words, and his breath catches in his windpipe when Jamie closes the distance between them.

Jamie’s lips are full and soft against his own, and Gary can feel the cold tip of Jamie’s nose against his cheek. Warmth spreads down his chest as he lets Jamie move his hands underneath his coat, feeling Jamie’s hands span the small of his back through the fabric of his sweater.

He brings his hands up to slide along Jamie’s cheeks, moving them up in Jamie’s hair. Jamie lets out a soft noise as Gary buries his fingers in the strands of his hair, and he deepens the kiss.

The wet, hot slide of Jamie’s tongue makes Gary tighten his grip on Jamie’s hair. Jamie lets out that sweet, sweet sound again, and Gary wants to hear it again and again. Every part of him that is touching Jamie feels warm, yet his feet and legs are turning cold.

“James,” he breathes, as he pulls back out of the kiss, but continues holding Jamie close. “We’re gonna die of hypothermia out here.”

“That was your plan for me, wasn’t it?” Jamie mutters, pressing kisses along Gary’s jawline.

Resisting the urge to moan and let himself fall back into the kiss, Gary tugs on Jamie’s hand and starts walking back towards the hotel.

“Always in a hurry, you are,” Jamie says fondly. Gary lets him wrap his arm around his waist, his heart thudding inside his chest. He hasn’t felt this kind of happy and this level of anticipation in a long time.

“I did tell you I was easy, didn’t I?” Gary says when the hotel comes back into their view. He starts walking ahead of Jamie, a thrill of excitement moving down his spine when he feels Jamie trying to catch up with him.

“Then why do I feel like you’re still going to make me work for it,” Jamie asks him, voice low as he lets his hands slide across Gary’s ribs through his coat.

Gary throws a look over his shoulder and gives him a smile that he hopes is seducing instead of dorky, but at the same time, with Jamie, he thinks it doesn’t really matter after all.

 

❄❄❄❄❄

 

Epilogue

 

“Come on then!” Gary shouts, throwing his hand up in the air. “What the fuck was that? Fucking divvy, learn to fucking look!”

Jamie snorts in his seat, propping his elbow up on the armrest and leaning his chin on his hand. Gary feels him staring and turns around, “What then? Were you going to say that was a fair tackle?”

“Sit down, Gaz,” Jamie laughs instead, tugging on the sleeve of Gary’s shirt. “I’m supposed to be the professional here, I can’t have you getting a stadium permit for harassing the referee.”

Gary huffs, yet he sits down next to Jamie. He does lean over to read what Jamie has scribbled on his notepad, and gives a content nod when he sees Jamie annotation. “See, you agree with me.”

“Of course I do, I don’t want to sleep on the couch tonight,” Jamie says, keeping his eyes fixed on the play but he hears Gary’s indignant grunt, and it makes him smile.

“You’re lucky United is winning, otherwise you’d be sleeping on the couch anyway.”

“No, I wouldn’t,” Jamie says, giving Gary a smile and putting a hand on his thigh. “You’d drag me off the couch in the middle of the night to come sleep in our bed because you need something to drool on.”

There’s a fond glint in Gary’s eyes that tells Jamie he’s right.

“All this talk about you being the professional,” Gary says, changing the subject, “but you can’t even dress yourself properly.” He tugs on the knot of Jamie’s tie.

“They’ll fix it up when I go back to the studio in five minutes,” Jamie says, still letting Gary pull and tug on his clothing. “Do you want to get dinner after?”

“Yeah, let’s go to Almost Famous, I’ve been starving for a burger from them ever since I landed,” Gary says, pulling up Google Maps on his phone to plan the route.

A few minutes later Jamie is called to go back to the studio for the last part of MNF, and he gives Gary a quick peck on his cheek as he gets out of his chair.

“See you in a bit, yeah? Go easy on Phil when you Skype him later.”

“How’d you know I was gonna Skype him?” Gary asks.

Jamie grins. “‘Cause you’re scared he’s going to light the hotel on fire while you’re gone.”

“Phil would do that, though, Jamie!” Gary protests, already pulling his iPad out of his messenger bag to start up the call. “Now you’re just making me worried, go, go talk football,” he shoos.

Jamie shakes his head fondly, moving up the stairs to go to their make-shift MNF studio for today’s show. Gary’s furiously tapping on his tablet.

Jamie is right. Phil _would_ set his hotel on fire.   

 

 

❄❄❄❄❄

 

the end. 

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you liked it! Kudos and comments are lovingly drooled upon!♥
> 
> Find me on [tumblr](http://www.quemadrid.tumblr.com).

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [微冷 （Baby，It's Cold Outside）](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11829039) by [natalia_lip](https://archiveofourown.org/users/natalia_lip/pseuds/natalia_lip)




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